


the wonders of this world

by sanctuary_for_all



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A peek inside Aziraphale's head, Also it got angsty somehow, Crowley appreciation, Curse you Michael Sheen, Feels, Fluff, I blame you for this, Love Confessions, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Religion, With some post-Not!Apocalypse stuff too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-04-24 11:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19171933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanctuary_for_all/pseuds/sanctuary_for_all
Summary: The wonders of creation were not meant for angels. Aziraphale could experience them, secretly, but they would never truly be his.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "The Miracle" by Queen.

Aziraphale shouldn't be _able_ to understand the ineffable plan. Otherwise, it wouldn't be ineffable.

He'd had to remind himself of that far more often than should have been necessary over the centuries. From the moment that poor couple had been kicked out into the desert just for eating a piece of /fruit. Fruit was delicious, for one thing, and a little more knowledge seemed like a marvelous idea when it was so hard to understand _why_ certain—

No. He wasn't here to question.

Crowley, now... Crowley questioned _everything_. It was incredibly inappropriate of him, of course, just like it was incredibly inappropriate of Aziraphale to be so _relieved_ to hear some of those questions out loud. To feel so oddly relieved by Crowley's presence in general, the mere sight of the demon making him feel less alone than the entire host of heaven. Angels had fallen for less.

The wise thing to do, of course, would be to stay away from Crowley. To banish that strange, awful relief, the dizzying warmth that sometimes crept in during odd moments when he'd made the demon smile. Interacting with him at all was a needless temptation, one that did nothing to stop the questions Aziraphale had never quite been able to silence.

But he'd never been good at silencing _anything_ , really, including his desire for beauty. It came from God, after all, whether straight from Her hands or through the minds of her creations. There were so many shades of it, from the rich art of old books to the delightful craftsmanship of a well-cooked meal. Didn't he worship Her better by celebrating the wonders She had created?

Crowley... he was just as beautiful as the rest of it. More so, really, even for all his maddening impossibility. So much light amid the darkness, like curling up next to a warm fireside on a cold night. Crowley was the most wondrous of all God's creations, and Aziraphale had always been dedicated in his appreciation of her handiwork.

That, however, was all he could allow himself. He could indulge himself with Crowley's company, with the Arrangement that was less a sensible efficiency than a bald-faced excuse to spend time with the enemy. But there was a line he absolutely could not cross, a reminder that this was temporary that he could not be allowed to forget. Angels didn't get to choose whether or not they followed the ineffable plan. Demons thought they could choose, but they really had no more rights than the angels did.

And the plan said one thing very clearly – the wonders of creation were not meant for angels. He could experience them, secretly, but they would never truly be his.

So he ignored his own senses when it became harder and harder to register love in the world around him, his perception blurred by the feeling that radiated out of him with ever-increasing strength. When he grew terrified for Crowley, whether because of the risk of infernal attentions or his obsessive interest in something that could kill him with a mere _splash_ , he pretended he was worried only about his own potential punishment. And when decades passed without seeing his face, Aziraphale pretended he hadn't looked for him around every corner.

He was no closer to understanding the ineffable plan, but he could never quite stop himself from believing in it. After all, a God who could create both Oscar Wilde _and_ Crowley had to know what She was doing.

000

The bombs Crowley dropped on that church changed both nothing and everything.

Saving Aziraphale the inconvenience of a disincorporation didn't stop him from being a demon. Even saving him the embarrassment of being fooled by Nazis didn't qualify, since Heaven probably would have preferred that he be punished for his foolishness. Both sides, Aziraphale had found, were big on learning through suffering.

But the books. Or, more accurately, the demon who'd understood him well enough to know that those books would be at least as important to him as the physical body he'd worn for so long. Who was thoughtful enough, and kind enough, to save them for Aziraphale when he'd let himself be distracted by his own foolishness. Who hadn't seemed to want anything in return for the gift (even one so perfectly designed), despite the fact that demons were supposedly all about deals and costs.

Angels were used to being loved in the exact same way they were meant to love – distantly, distractedly, with a vague enough focus that there was no differentiation between the angel and a tree chosen at random. Aziraphale had never been terribly good at the proper angel kind of love – God's creations, and humans', were far too beautifully detailed not to appreciate them in all their specificity – but that had nothing to do with him. /He was hardly one of Her finest creations.

That Crowley could give him such thoughtful consideration, despite that fact... well, that simply proved how magnificent Crowley was. Yes, he had fallen, but God had created both wolves and deer. Just because they were meant to be enemies didn't mean either was less important. For all Aziraphale knew, for all /anyone knew, the fall had been as vital to the ineffable plan as anything else.

And if that simple act stripped away the last of Aziraphale's ability to pretend that he wasn't in a great deal of trouble... well, the angel had no one to blame but himself.

It became harder and harder to remind himself that Crowley wasn't meant for him. The thought of harm befalling him became so intolerable that he finally gave in to Crowley's request for holy water, blessed by his own hand as if that would somehow be enough to protect the demon from its inherent danger. They slowly ate more and more meals together, the chance to savor both delicious food and Crowley's presence an overwhelming enough intoxication that Aziraphale had to ease himself into it. They also drank together, quiet afternoons and evenings in the bookshop that caused him to collect wines with the same intensity that he collected books.

(Alcohol seemed to be the one thing Crowley allowed himself to be intoxicated by. Though demons were encouraged to indulge in all the pleasures angels were meant to abstain from, Crowley rarely ate, only ever seemed to go to the theater with Aziraphale, and kept his art collection to a few select pieces. Even his temptations were usually far more cerebral than most demons.

It was admirable, but it broke Aziraphale's heart a little bit. If there was anyone who deserved to know what it was like to get lost in the world's beauty, it was Crowley.)

000

News of the Antichrist's birth hit Aziraphale like a slap to the face.

It was an abrupt, painful reminder that this... thing he had been building with Crowley was nothing more than a cherished, ultimately impossible fantasy. He hadn't quite been able to push Crowley away – those golden eyes of his were more luring than an original Shakespeare folio – but he pushed away any hope that it could be fixed. According to the great plan, angels were meant for war, not beauty.

But Crowley _knew_ him, knew how to unravel his resolve as easily as he tangled up the headphone cords of random people he passed by on the street ("frustration is a powerful thing, angel," he would say, as if his evil was plot rather than pretense). It was wildly unsurprising that _he_ would want to stop the Apocalypse – there was no beauty in Hell, no true miracles. Crowley didn't belong there, even though he seemingly had no interest in returning to heaven.

(It was back to the questions again. Crowley was braver than Aziraphale, to be able to ask those questions out loud, but at the same time Crowley's entire existence steadied Aziraphale's faith. The impossible contradiction that was Anthony J. Crowley could never be an _accident_.)

Aziraphale's own impulse, sadly, was far more base. The idea that he could hold onto all this, hold onto _Crowley_ , was too much of a temptation for even an angel to ignore.

000


	2. Chapter 2

They lost the Antichrist.

By this point, Aziraphale was almost more determined to solve the problem than Crowley was. Surely, if it _could_ be solved, that meant the Great Plan couldn't possibly be the ineffable one. Which, if anyone _thought_ about things for a few moments, made the most sense.

Where Aziraphale went wrong, he realized later, was in attempting to do it without Crowley. He'd always had too much faith in his superiors – surely God would _do_ something if She didn't approve of their actions – so he'd tried to keep Crowley out of it. He'd told himself he was simply following the rules, trying to get the other angels to realize their better natures, but in his heart of hearts Aziraphale knew his reasons were purely selfish. He knew the other angels thought him soft and ridiculous because of all the love they could feel pouring off him, but if they saw him with Crowley they might realize that so very much of it was directed at one particular demon. Then it would all be over for Aziraphale, whether or not the world ended. Any chance to see Crowley would be gone.

(When Crowley had asked him to go away with him... they would have been caught. He knew that.

Still, for just a moment, he wanted it so badly his hands shook.)

But then everything broke apart anyway, and all of Aziraphale's plans and justifications collapsed at his feet. The choice became painfully, heartbreakingly simple – follow the Great Plan, or go back to Earth and hope with every ounce of his divinity that Crowley would stand with him.

For the first time in his extremely long life, Aziraphale had no doubts about which choice he'd made.

Things got rather complicated after that. Crowley had miraculously not left Earth (he shouldn't be _quite_ so haunted about the lost "best friend" of Crowley's he'd never known about, possibly the one he'd been with when he'd tried to call), but Aziraphale needed a body to be of any use to him. Somehow everyone managed to find each other, get to the right place and stop the missiles, which was so ridiculously impossible that it occurred to the angel that they _must_ be getting divine assistance.

And even if they weren't, how could Gabriel and Beezlebub know that? God's plan was _ineffable_ , after all.

For the record, he was _fully_ aware that never talking to Crowley again hardly counted as any sort of significant threat. But for Aziraphale, the idea of never talking to Crowley again was the worst possible thing he could think of.

000

Anathema and her young man drove them to the bus stop.

It would have been easier, of course, to simply miracle themselves back to London. That, however, would have been a large enough effort to draw considerable attention from their respective (former?) employers, the sort of attention that was likely to get rather violent given everything that had happened at the airbase. It would come eventually, but neither he nor Crowley had any interest in hastening its appearance.

And then... they talked. As they used to, small, simple statements that somehow made him feel more understood, more _forgiven_ , than any interaction he'd ever had with heaven. He wasn't even surprised when Crowley asked if God had wanted it this way all along. He'd lost his faith, but somehow still managed to acknowledge the Divine Creator in a way that was far more real than any attempt Gabriel had ever made.

It seemed like an impossible gift, that he'd gotten his friend back. He wouldn't cheapen it by letting his foolish heart run away with—

"You can stay at my place, if you like."

The offering, as open-hearted as Crowley always tried so hard to pretend he wasn't, staggered Aziraphale. The angel knew emphatically that he did not deserve it, not after he'd nearly sacrificed all this to his own blind certainty that he knew the way things were supposed to go. He couldn't quite figure out how to offer up the apology Crowley so desperately deserved -- words seemed horribly inadequate, and Crowley's bravery was still far greater than his own.

Instead, ignoring the way his heart leapt, he offered Crowley a polite excuse to withdraw the offer. "I don't think my side would like that very much."

Rather than accept it, however, Crowley's expression turned solemn. "You don't have a side anymore. Neither of us do." Then he paused. "We're on our own side."

Crowley had said that before, but this time there wasn't a trace of cavalierness or even temptation. He said it like the simple truth it was, with Aziraphale's own quiet underlying certainty that they would be punished for it. Ineffable plan or not, their bosses had been thwarted.

And this time... there would be no memo. Gabriel understood love no better than he understood beauty, which meant all he would see is defiance. He hadn't fallen – he didn't need to free his wings to know they'd still be white – but there were other punishments for an angel.

Aziraphale felt surprisingly calm about the thought as he followed Crowley into the bus and sat down beside him. (Such a little use of power, changing the driver's thoughts. They'd have a little time left.) If there was one thing he could truly do with his whole being, it was love Her creations. Surely God would forgive him for dying because he'd loved a particular creation more than was strictly allowed.

But even if She did not, it would be a grievous sin to waste what time he had left. Knowing this, Aziraphale gathered his courage and carefully laid his hand atop Crowley's. The right words always failed him when he needed them most, but perhaps this might be—

At the lightest touch, Crowley jumped like a bird startled into flight. Aziraphale yanked his hand back, horrified that his touch had been unwelcome, but before he could get very far Crowley made a noise that he'd never once heard him make. Then he grabbed Aziraphale's hand, set his own back down on his leg, and firmly put Aziraphale's back down on top of it.

Once his own surprise had worn off, he realized that Crowley was trembling ever so slightly.

Gently, so gently, Aziraphale curled his fingers just enough to properly hold Crowley's hand. "Forgive me, my dear," he said softly, the last two words said so often in his thoughts that he didn't notice them finally slip out into speech.

Crowley let out an unsteady breath. "Shut up," he said finally, his tone utterly gentle.

After that, nothing more really needed to be said.

000

Of course, there was still that last prophecy to worry about. Crowley seemed to think it was talking about their loyalties, but Aziraphale had been around prophecy for centuries now. The minds of prophets and prophetesses had an odd adherence to literalness, particularly in their most seemingly incomprehensible passages. Besides, how would knowing what side they were on _help_ when both sides would undoubtedly want—

It was, possibly, the one genuinely clever idea Aziraphale had ever had.

When he told Crowley, however, the demon did not agree. He didn't agree _quite_ loudly, in fact, enough that his houseplants quivered in terror at even the reflected lash of his fury. "If you think that I would let you go down there wearing _either_ of our faces, then you've lost what's left of your _mind._ Demons are _master_ torturers, Angel, and there are _so_ many things they could do that would hurt an angel just as much as a demon."

"Maybe, but I'll have a _much_ better chance than you will," Aziraphale argued, his certainty only adding to his intensity. "They'll want a dramatic death. Something that would scare even a demon. That means holy water, or possibly a holy relic of some kind. And for me—"

"The heavenly host punishes through _memos_ , Aziraphale," he hissed. "You'd be risking your _life_ , and the most I would be risking is _boredom_."

"Not this time." Aziraphale set his jaw. He could be stubborn when he wanted to be. "I don't know what they'll come up with, but I've been a thorn in Gabriel's side long enough. In his eyes, what I did today was unforgivable."

Crowley, however, would be safe from anything Gabriel could come up with. Unlike God, heaven wasn't known for its creativity.

Crowley flinched, but it only seemed to make him more determined. "All that means is we need to /hide you." He started pacing. "I'll take care of Gabriel, then we'll switch and—"

"No." Aziraphale moved to stand in Crowley's path, nearly bursting with emotion. "I _refuse_ to risk the most beautiful thing in my life simply because I wasn't brave enough! You _have_ to let me protect you!"

Crowley went utterly still, no longer even pretending to breathe. Aziraphale could _feel_ Crowley staring at him even through the glasses, something deeper than shock radiating out of him, but Aziraphale held his ground. He'd lied to Crowley too many times to back away when he'd finally been brave enough to be honest.

Finally, Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. "Fine," he croaked, trembling the way his plants had been. "We'll make the switch. I just... I have to go right now."

Then he turned and fled the room. A moment later, Aziraphale heard the sound of a door shutting and a lock being thrown.

This time, it was Aziraphale's turn to close his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

The 15 minutes Crowley was gone felt like Aziraphale's entire life lived over again.

He composed 20 different apologies as the endless seconds ticked by, rejecting all of them after mere moments. Not only was his word choice clearly untrustworthy, he wasn't even entirely certain what the apology should be _for_. Crowley must have had at least _some_ sense of Aziraphale's regard for him, after all these centuries, and all signs had suggested Crowley had at least _some_ regard for him in return. It was true that actually giving _voice_ to that regard had been frowned upon up to this point, but surely they couldn't get themselves in more trouble than they already had.

Had it _really_ been so appalling to Crowley to hear how Aziraphale felt about him?

When Crowley finally emerged, though, the sight of him chased even that question out of Aziraphale's mind. Crowley looked exhausted, fragile in a way that he'd never seen him be before, and in that moment all Aziraphale wanted to do was comfort him. "We can _do_ this, Crowley." He held out a hand. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

Crowley hesitated for a moment, like he was surprised by the words, then a rueful look flickered across his face. "I wouldn't say _that_ , angel," he said quietly, voice warm enough to ease a little of the ache in Aziraphale's heart. Then he took a deep breath he didn't need, expression taking on a cavalier edge that was almost good enough to be convincing. "Shall we?"

Carefully, Aziraphale took his hand. Nothing happened for a moment, both clearly waiting for the other to make a move, then Crowley inclined his head in a way that made it clear that Aziraphale was meant to start things. Feeling suddenly flustered for no reason he dared examine too closely, the angel sent a careful tendril of himself past the physical boundaries of their fingertips.

Crowley slipped past in the opposite direction at the same moment, moving so carefully that their essences never quite managed to touch. Disappointment bit sharply, fueled by the exact same reasons he'd refused to look at too closely only moments before. Aziraphale pushed it back, carefully tucking it away deep inside himself as he let go of his corporeal body to flow into Crowley's. Clearly, it was best that they get this done as quickly as possible.

As he settled in, however, efficiency was hard to hold onto. This body wasn't the _real_ Crowley, just his physical form, but it had carried him faithfully through 6,000 years. Aziraphale gently took hold of bones and muscles as if handling the rarest books in his collection, exploring each nerve and sinew with the reverence it deserved. Crowley had been here, only moments before, occupying the very same spaces. It was, in a very real way, Crowley's home.

Though it was merely another organ – the idea that carried any greater significance existed purely in the human imagination – Aziraphale found himself handling Crowley's heart with particular care.

When he was finally able to pull himself away, he opened his eyes to find his vision darkened by Crowley's sunglasses. He removed them instantly, carefully tucking them into the inner pocket of the blazer.

Across from him, Crowley's eyes were still closed. Or, well, _his_ eyes, really, subtle differences in familar features making it obvious to Aziraphale who was occupying the space. Heaven would never be able to tell – no one there knew him very well at all – but the angel found himself quite moved to think of his physical form being in Crowley's care. Though they had drastically different tastes in fashion, there were no better hands he could possibly leave it in.

His borrowed heart fluttering in a way that was all too familar, Aziraphale let himself watch the dearest being in the universe animate his face. His body, he was sure, had never looked quite so magnificent.

Finally, Crowley opened his eyes and met Aziraphale's, only to instantly shift his gaze away. "Put the damned glasses back on," he said gruffly, a certain thickness to his voice that Aziraphale only recognized later. "There's a _reason_ you hardly ever see me without them."

It took Aziraphale an instant to realize what Crowley was talking about. Once he did, he was offended enough to forget his own self-consciousness. "Your eyes are _lovely_ ," he argued, appalled to think that Crowley might believe otherwise. "Like the ripe carambola you brought me once, more than a century before anyone in England even knew what it was." An ache traveled through him at the memory. That had been only a few decades before their fight about the holy water, and the start of Crowley's appalling decades-long nap. "I should have gone with you to that open-air market in Singapore you told me about." He sighed, regret all too familar a companion. "I wish I had."

Crowley stared at him, a burning look that Aziraphale didn't recognize on his own face. The angel let him look, feeling brave enough not to hide for the first time in millennia.

Finally, Crowley's gaze once again slid away from Aziraphale's. "You should get some sleep," he said quietly. "Feel free to take my bed."

Aziraphale blinked, startled by the change in conversation. "Thank you, my dear, but I don't normally bother with unconsciousness. It always struck me as rather inconvenient."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "You think that now, but the body you're wearing has picked up a few bad habits over the centuries. Might as well give in and let yourself indulge a little, angel."

To Aziraphale, it seemed less like an indulgence and more like an enforced seperation from Crowley. "Perhaps if you read to me?" He scanned the room for anything to suggest, noticing the pages of what appeared to be a space book. The ache this time was far sharper, Crowley's voice saying they could run away together echoing in his thoughts, but it gave him a better idea. "Or told me about Alpha Centauri." He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I don't appreciate it as I should."

Crowley gave him a sharp look, as if expecting some suet sort of joke or trick, but Aziraphale schemed only for more of Crowley's company. Finally, he sighed. "I suppose I could remember a few stories," he said, voice slightly easier than it had been.

Aziraphale, surrounded by Crowley's scent and lulled by the sound of his voice, did eventually sleep. It was, overall, a far more pleasant experience than he'd ever imagined.

000

Crowley was gone by the time Aziraphale woke up the following morning, a note detailing where they would meet up laid out on the counter.

The sight of the newly healed Bentley was a welcome surprise, the sudden appearance of Death far less so. Watching Crowley get grabbed, no matter whose body he was wearing, was something Aziraphale should have been prepared for.

He wasn't.

Hell, now... he was prepared for _that_. Aziraphale handled the situation as he imagined Crowley would, with the added benefit of being immune to holy water. True, he might have given the performance more of an _edge_ than he'd expected to, but he couldn't help it. Imagining the real Crowley down here, facing death in the most painful way possible, was more than enough of a motivation.

By the time they'd chased him back upstairs to Earth, he was certain of only one thing. Hell was never, under any circumstances, getting Crowley back.

Not if _he_ had anything to say about it.

000

Crowley was already at the park when Aziraphale arrived, and the sight of him eased the last lingering traces of fear inside Aziraphale. They sat next to each other on the bench, maintaining the same careful distance they always did. As they did, an errant thought whispered to Aziraphale that maybe they didn't _need_ that distance anymore. Surely their true allegiances were obvious by this point.

(Obvious, yes, and yet somehow he could feel Her divine light even more strongly than before. He wondered, sometimes, if the ineffable plan was far more complex than he'd given it credit for.)

When they made the exchange this time, it took all the precision he had to skim ever so lightly along the edge of Crowley's being. Not enough to intrude – surely Crowley's own care made it painfully clear he didn't wish that – but hopefully close enough to give the demon some sense of how Aziraphale truly saw him. He hadn't seemed to believe him, but perhaps this would be more convincing.

All too soon, however, he was back in his own body. For a moment it didn't quite seem to fit, an unsettled feeling only increased by the way Crowley was deliberately not looking at him. Then conversation slipped back into its old familiar rhythms, Crowley extended an offer for lunch that Aziraphale happily accepted, and all was right with the world.

Then, miraculously, the world became even _more_ right than it had previously been. For once, Crowley didn't seem to mind Aziraphale complimenting his character, simply returning his soft look and a comment that (from Crowley, at least) was just as complimentary. Neither of them had to be quite so afraid about keeping up appearances.

That feeling bled into the rest of lunch. Their chairs slowly but surely inched closer to one another, Aziraphale regularly leaning forward in direct violation of the once invisible line between them. Crowley's legs crossed the divide as well, his slouch pronounced enough that the toes of his shoes rested lightly against the side of Aziraphale's foot. He even tried a bite or two of Aziraphale's meal, both times off of the angel's own fork.

When they wandered back to Aziraphale's newly restored bookshop, as they were wont to do, Aziraphale joined Crowley on the couch. The vintages Adam had magically restored to him weren't quite as good as the ones he'd had before, but as this was the sole area of his life that hadn't improved _immeasurably_ he was hardly in a position to complain.

Crowley, his dark glasses tucked back into his pocket, was the best of those improvements. He was sprawled across his half of the couch, leaning back against the arm yet somehow close enough that his knees touched Aziraphale's pantleg. Even having _been_ in the body, Aziraphale couldn't quite understand how the physics worked. "Remind me in about 6 or 7 years to track Adam down again and make sure his taste in wine has improved." He took another sip. "It's not too bad for an 11-year-old, of course, but I should probably do _something_ to show my appreciation."

"I'll do my best," Aziraphale said absently, still trying to figure out how Crowley managed it. " _Surely_ that must be uncomfortable for you. Despite appearances, your bones don't work any differently than mine do."

"Hmmm? I don't—" The confusion suddenly disappeared from Crowley's expression, and he shifted as if suddenly uncomfortable. After a beat, he started to straighten. "If I'm jabbing you, angel, just say—"

Aziraphale made an exasperated noise. "That's not what I'm saying." He scooped up Crowley's legs, draping them across his lap. "There." They were slightly cool, as Crowley's skin always seemed to be during their brief moments of contact, and Aziraphale had the pleasant realization that he might be useful in helping Crowley stay warm. "That's closer to what I meant."

Crowley didn't move, staring at his legs for a long moment before lifting his head to meet Aziraphale's eyes. "I'm trying to be careful, angel," he said quietly, voice trembling a little.

Aziraphale, remembering, gently squeezed Crowley's knee. "You can fly as fast as you'd like." His own voice was soft. "I'm finally free to catch up."

Crowley closed his eyes, a glimmer of what looked like tears visible just beneath the lashes, and slid his legs off of Aziraphale's lap. Then, miracling his glass back onto the table, he pivoted around and very carefully laid his head on Aziraphale's lap. Crowley's true being moved as well, gently seeping through the physical barriers between them to find Aziraphale.

The angel closed his own eyes, fingers buried in the silk of Crowley's hair as he welcomed Crowley with everything he had. There was heat and light every place they touched, the energy that fueled the stars themselves. Within those stars there was such _softness_ , all the gentleness and care that Crowley had spent so long denying. That softness had caused his demon such _pain_ over the centuries, some of it inflicted by Aziraphale's own hand, and the angel shared that pain as he poured his love into each and every wound. Even then there was such strength, enough to carry the world itself on his shoulders.

There was nothing in all the eternities more beautiful. Aziraphale wrapped Crowley in that truth, in the angel's sheer _faith_ that the world was a more wondrous place because Crowley was in it. Aziraphale had never doubted that, once in all their years together. He'd only doubted that any of that could be his.

Crowley told him he was an idiot, but the feeling was fueled by such love that it felt like a gift. That same love surrounded Aziraphale, pouring through him with the rich golden sweetness of honey and the transporting properties of the finest wine. It felt like being touched by the divine, holier than anything Gabriel or Michael was capable of, while at the same time feeling like every physical indulgence he'd ever savored. More than anything it anchored him here, in this endless moment, the foundation on which he would stand for whatever slice of eternities he had left.

Eventually, with the utmost reluctance, they settled back into their own bodies. Aziraphale would have wept at the loss, a separation that felt like sacrilege, but he could feel traces of himself still entwined with Crowley's being. Even better, he could still feel traces of Crowley entwined with his own, as if their beings were still gently holding one another despite the walls of flesh between them.

When he opened his eyes, Crowley was looking up at him with the kind of awe that normally made one think of worship. If the feelings suffusing Aziraphale were any indication, his own expression was very much the same.

Still, he knew there was a touch of wickedness about his expression when he smiled down at his love. "Fast enough for you?"

Crowley laughed. As always, it was the sweetest sound Aziraphale had ever heard.

**Author's Note:**

> Come check out my [original fiction,](https://jennifferwardell.wixsite.com/mybooks) my [blog,](http://jennifferwardell.blogspot.com) or say hi to me on [Tumblr](http://sanctuaryforalluniverses.tumblr.com)!


End file.
